The words hang in the air between us, and Mr. Antithesis's expression doesn't change. He simply watches me, like a scientist observing a particularly interesting bacterium through a microscope. The silence stretches, becoming a living thing that fills the sterile office.

  I've dealt with plenty of tense situations before—gun-wielding criminals, superpowered villains, even Aaron freaking McKinley trying to burn my face off. But this quiet, this clinical assessment, somehow feels worse. Like I'm a product being inspected for defects.

  "I think," Mr. Antithesis finally says, each word measured and precise, "that you've given me enough to work with."

  My stomach churns. Is that good? Bad? Does he believe me? Is he about to press a button under his desk that opens a trapdoor to a shark tank? (Do supervillains actually have those, or is that just in the movies? Focus, Sam!)

  In my chest, I feel a preemptive, sort of... precognitive pain.

  "So," I say, trying to keep my voice steady, "now that I've held up my end of the bargain, it's your turn." I straighten in my chair, trying to project confidence I don't feel. "Two vials of Hypeman, as agreed."

  For a moment, I have a vivid flash of him scoffing at the deal, telling me I'm a naive child for thinking he'd honor an agreement with someone like me. I can almost see him reaching into a drawer, pulling out a gun, lecturing me about bad business practices before putting a bullet through my chest.

  But that's just my anxiety running wild. Mr. Antithesis doesn't even sigh. He simply reaches into his desk drawer with a movement so smooth it's almost mechanical, and withdraws two sleek, black autoinjectors. They look professionally made, with subtle red lines running along their edges and a simple "H" etched into the side. No hand-lettered labels, no duct tape, no sign that these came from an underground lab. They look like they could've been manufactured by Apple.

  "What was it you said to my lieutenants?" he asks, turning one injector slightly so it catches the light. "'I'm doing this because I think I will get more out of this deal than you will. And you're doing this because you think you'll get more out of the deal than I will.'" He places both autoinjectors on the desk between us. "Take them. They're mostly incidental. I won't pretend I wouldn't be upset if you demolished the Hypeman project, but it's just that—a project. And you're just a girl."

  Just a girl. Is that what he thinks?

  "I'm the girl that got Illya Federov to stand down," I remind him. "And fucked many, many of your plans."

  There it is again—that brief, involuntary smile that he immediately suppresses, like someone stamping out a spark before it can catch. It's the most human thing I've seen from him so far, and somehow that makes it more unsettling, not less.

  "Yes," he acknowledges. "That was impressive. You certainly have gotten in the way of many projects. You should consider yourself lucky that your power doesn't lend itself well to collateral damage."

  He sucks on his teeth for a moment while I reach forward and take the autoinjectors. "Otherwise, it might be Kate in your position, telling me everything she knows about Bloodhound."

  I don't like that sentence. I know the phrase 'a chill ran down my spine' is fifth-grade writing, but the goosebumps are totally involuntary. The fear - the dropping stomach. The only reason I haven't had a hit put out on me is because it's hard to bite a warehouse so hard it explodes? Is that really all this comes down to for him? It's almost inhuman.

  Where's his anger?

  "How do they work?" I ask, trying to shove the thought back, turning one over in my hand.

  "It's an intramuscular injection," Mr. Antithesis explains, his tone shifting to something almost professorial. "Press it against a large muscle group—thigh, shoulder, buttock—and press the button. The effects manifest within approximately ten minutes and last for roughly six hours, depending on individual metabolism and power type."

  I slip the autoinjectors into my pocket, trying not to show how weird it feels to be casually discussing illegal super-drugs with the head of a criminal empire. It's like we're talking about vitamins or something.

  "I'm not going to pretend I'm an open book, Miss Small," Mr. Antithesis continues, folding his hands on the desk. "But you told my lieutenants you wanted to see if I was a man or a monster." He tilts his head slightly, those amber eyes studying me. "Out of professional curiosity, what do you think?"

  The question catches me off guard. What do I think? He's given me nothing to work with beyond being an empty suit with no conscience. No hint of personality or humanity beyond that quickly-suppressed smile. No anger, no joy, no passion of any kind.

  "I think you're neither," I say finally, deciding honesty is my best bet. "You're just... a business. A corporation with skin." I gesture around the sterile office. "All of this, it's like... like you've stripped away everything human about yourself because it's... not profitable."

  I'm not sure if that's going to piss him off, but he just nods, as if I've made a reasonable observation.

  "Conscience is for philanthropists," he says simply. "It's a shame you're not interested in joining our operations. You have good instincts."

  I can't help the short chuckle that escapes me. The idea that I would ever work for the Kingdom is so absurd it circles back around to being funny.

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  "Is it a shame?" I ask, genuine curiosity mixing with disbelief. "Or are you just playing mind games? Because I'm not intimidated, and don't you dare say something boring like 'you should be intimidated.' Like, do you really think it's a shame? I gotta know."

  Mr. Antithesis looks genuinely confused by this, his brow furrowing slightly. It's like I've suddenly started speaking another language.

  "We've gotten a little off topic," he says, redirecting the conversation with the same precision he seems to apply to everything, and completely ignoring my question. "Do you have anything else interesting about Kate to tell me?"

  This whole exchange reminds me of those board games I used to play as a kid—not the complex strategic ones Jordan likes, not even anything as tactical as Chess. It's more like chutes and ladders. Each of us trying to get to the end of the board, and I can never tell when I'm about to slip on a landmine or suddenly gain the upper hand.

  Have I ever had the upper hand a single time in this conversation? I won't pretend that he's not in my head a little. I'm not that conceited.

  I think about Kate, about the deal we made, about the carefully constructed story we've crafted together. I've given him what I promised—enough information to plausibly identify "Kate" as Soot, without revealing anything that would put the real Kate in immediate danger. Everything's turning now.

  "If I have anything else," I say, patting the pocket where the Hypeman injectors now rest, "you're going to have to trade me for it." I meet his gaze directly. "That's how negotiations work, right? You'll have to call if you want to see my hand. I got what I came for."

  Mr. Antithesis's expression doesn't change, but something in the air between us shifts. He's not amused, but he's not angry either. Just... flat. Totally flat, like an abandoned soda left out overnight. His nostrils flare just for a second, but if there's any emotion, I can't tell. Solely an inhale.

  "Touché," he says, the word sounding strange in his precisely modulated voice. "I should have expected a more scrupulous superhero type to not try and play games with me. Isn't that along the lines of what you said earlier?"

  I don't really care what I said earlier. Honestly, I just want to get out of this sterile, sanitized office with its torn-up stress balls and back to Philadelphia where things make sense. But I know better than to show that, so I keep my mouth shut. Person who talks first in a negotiation loses, isn't that right, Dad?

  After a moment, Mr. Antithesis sighs. An actual human sound that seems extremely out of place coming from him. "Name your price."

  The question makes me pause. I hadn't actually expected him to bite. I'd figured he'd just dismiss me now that he has the information he wanted. But apparently, he thinks I might have more to offer. Which means I have leverage.

  I worry my cheek between my teeth, considering. What do I want from him? What would be worth trading more "information" for? Something that would advance our investigation, something that's been bugging me...

  "Sure," I say finally. "You tell me what you have to do with Tremont & Fairfax. And something solid, or we're both leaving without our cherry on top."

  He doesn't react. For a second, I think I swear I can see maybe a little bit of a vein pulsating across his temple, but then it's gone. Or maybe it was never there in the first place.

  "What makes you think I have anything to do with a law firm?" he asks, his voice betraying nothing despite that momentary facial tic.

  "Come on," I say, leaning forward slightly. "Tremont & Fairfax handles an unusual number of superhuman cases. Their lawyers show up defending everyone from Mudslide to Aaron McKinley. And they're representing cases specifically tied to Kingdom operations." I shrug, trying to look casual. "Seems like a pretty big coincidence."

  Is some of that not entirely true? Sure. But, well... I've seen the Princess Bride too much to not know how to play this game. He knows that I know that he knows that I know... and so on, and so forth. Never go against a Small when death is on the line.

  Mr. Antithesis's fingers drum once against the desk, a gesture I'm starting to recognize as his equivalent of a normal person's fidgeting.

  "Tremont & Fairfax is a prestigious law firm that specializes in many areas," he says, each word carefully chosen. "Including, but not limited to, superhuman litigation."

  "And they just happen to represent Kingdom operatives out of, what, the goodness of their hearts?"

  He doesn't answer immediately, studying me with his gold eyes. I get the distinct impression he's recalculating something, adjusting variables in some complex equation I can't see.

  "Legal representation is a fundamental right in your justice system," he says finally. "Even for those society deems undesirable, like Mr. McKinley."

  "Sure, but most criminals get public defenders, not high-priced attorneys from corner offices in Manhattan," I counter. "Unless someone's footing the bill."

  "You seem to have already reached a conclusion," Mr. Antithesis observes. "Do you have a question, or are you just going to lecture me?"

  "There's a difference between suspecting something and knowing it," I reply. "And because I want to understand how it works. The Kingdom can't just write a check to Tremont & Fairfax for 'criminal defense services,' can you? That would be a paper trail a mile wide. So how do you do it? Shell companies? Dummy corporations? Some kind of elaborate money laundering scheme?"

  I'm fishing, pushing harder than I probably should, but I'm feeling bold. Stupid, maybe. Like maybe I can leave here better than empty-handed. I can leave here with a lead that goes a little further than Hypeman - if this is just his side project, I'm going to need to throw my line right in the center of his pond, not in the bank.

  I want to see how far I can press before he shuts me down.

  Mr. Antithesis stands abruptly, the movement so unexpected it makes me jump slightly in my seat. He walks to the window, turning his back to me as he looks out over the New York skyline. The late morning sun catches his profile, turning him into a dark silhouette against the glass.

  "Miss Small," he says, still facing the window, "you are surprisingly astute for someone your age. It's refreshing."

  He turns back to face me, and for the first time, I see something like genuine emotion in his expression—a calculating interest that reminds me of a chess player who's just discovered their opponent is better than expected. Someone who just discovered something professional level in his pubstomp. Or maybe I'm just flattering myself.

  "Tremont & Fairfax provides legal services to a wide variety of clients," he continues. "Some of those clients may have interests that align with certain business ventures I oversee. If you're looking for some sort of euphemism-laden verbal dance, where I sinisterly confirm or deny your question with a veiled threat and a gesture to a weapon, you once again misunderstand the fundamental nature of our relationship."

  Translation: Yes, we're paying them, but I'm not going to tell you how.

  "And don't make the mistake of assuming that I mean, yes, of course, Mrs. Small. We're paying them, but I won't tell you how," he rips it straight out of my brain, folding his hands up. "That's what I mean when I mention the euphemism-laden verbal dance. There is no pleading the fifth. There is no 'I refuse to confirm or deny'. I will give you no thread to pull, and no hole to observe the absence of, nothing to rule out, nothing to dig into. You understand this, right? Please. I need to know that you understand."

  He sounds, for a split second, like he's almost pleading with me.

  He sits back down.

  "Let me be as clear as possible. This is as far as you go," he sums up for me. "Take your action film delusions elsewhere."